


Comfort

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Gentle Kissing, Gentleness, M/M, Nightmares, No Mary Morstan, PTSD John, Post-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Post-Reichenbach, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Takes Care of John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 02:45:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13226499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John's nightmares are usually predictable, but Sherlock can't work out what's triggering them this time. Either way, there's one thing that will help.





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Just imagine Sherlock returns after TRF, John moves back in and there's a general settling back into their lives. No Mary, no Magnussen...you get the idea. <3

 

For Sherlock, it was always about the comfort, the security of someone that knew it all but didn’t judge. Someone that supported, understood, loved, and surrounded him with acceptance, no matter what. Someone that saw past the façade, the impressive displays of brilliance and the sarcastic wit and called him on all the bullshit he put out there. And he had found that. Found it in John.

For John, it was always about the comfort, the security of someone that knew it all but didn’t judge. Someone that supported, understood, loved, and surrounded him with acceptance, no matter what. Someone that saw past the troubled nights, the anxiety, the need for order, and offered what he craved but was ashamed of craving – excitement and pressure. And he had found that. Found it in Sherlock.

+++

It had been worse than usual lately, and John was putting off retiring to bed, avoiding the nightmares that seemed inevitable these days. He knew that he called out, that he must certainly wake Sherlock, yet Sherlock never mentioned it. Sighing, John looked at the clock and winced. It really was late, and he should at least try and get some rest. Rising, he closed his laptop and stood for a moment, steeling himself to make his way upstairs to bed.

Hours later, he sat on the edge of his bed, sweating, his heart hammering, fear and adrenaline harsh in his throat. Despite the burning of his eyes, he wouldn’t try for more sleep now, not with such terrible images awaiting his sleep. Making his way downstairs, John needed every ounce of his military training not to tear up at the thought of yet another day with so little rest. Blearily, he made a cup of tea, then turned and almost spilled it down himself as he saw Sherlock lying awake on the sofa, regarding him calmly.

“Another nightmare?” Sherlock asked in his rich baritone, and John nodded mutely. He felt foolish standing in the kitchen door holding his tea mug, but was unsure where to seat himself. With his usual sudden movement, Sherlock swung his legs off the end of the sofa and indicated John should sit next to him. Placing his tea on the desk, John sat down, unsure of where this interlude would lead. He did know that he felt calmer, safe, already with Sherlock so near. Now that they were sitting so close, John could see that Sherlock also bore the marks of disrupted sleep, and he felt guilty that his cries had awoken him.

As John gazed at Sherlock, Sherlock sat upright, one leg tucked under, facing John.

“Have you been awake every night?” John asked, hesitantly.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied immediately. His expression softened. “I’m worried about you, John.” John waited for the reasoning – it would affect his work, his ability to do Sherlock’s bidding – but it did not come. He frowned a little.

“You’re worried about me?” He asked.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, but determined. “They must be bad, these ones. They’ve been going on for much longer….” He trailed off, but he kept looking at John. John realized that Sherlock had been waking at his nightmares for longer that this week, and he had been tracking their occurrence.

“They are.” John said, looking down at his hands.

“What can I do?” Sherlock asked. John looked back at him, surprised. As he didn’t answer, Sherlock repeated himself. “What can I do to help?” he clarified, and John could see that he was serious in his offer. John knew what he needed was a warm safe place to lay, someone to hold him through the night, but he was hardly going to put that on Sherlock. Despite the awkward moments, the tension that had waxed and waned between them across the course of their friendship, John was fairly sure that Sherlock did not seek companionship in that way.

“Nothing, I’m fine, it’ll pass.” John said, and he was quite taken aback at the poorly disguised hurt and embarrassment in Sherlock’s face. Sherlock had looked away, then jumped up and started pacing, the way he did when he was faced with a social situation he didn’t know how to handle. John knew him well enough now to see that he was wrestling with something.

“What’s the matter?” John asked. There was something odd going on here. If he didn’t know better, he would think that Sherlock…

“Nothing, nothing.” Sherlock said, clearly agitated. John waited, knowing that there would be more. Wanting there to be more, as a suspicion grew in his mind. Sherlock was acting like a schoolboy who had been rejected by the crush he had just asked to the school formal. But that would mean...

Suddenly he whirled to face the now standing John. He grasped John by the upper arms and looked into his face. His words were staccato, pauses occurring between phases as though he couldn’t figure out how to express the emotions in his body. “You’ve been having nightmares since you moved in here, John. You call out every time, so I know how often they occur and what triggers them. This past week, this past week has been the worst yet. You’ve been up every night, and I can’t figure out why!” The frustration in his voice at this last admission was clear, and he released John and turned away, running one hand through his hair to release the pent up energy. “Usually, it’s something emotional, like an anniversary or something on the news about the war,” he continued, as John watched on in astonishment.

“But there’s been nothing in the last month to account for this.” He waved his hands in the air to indicate that ‘this’ was the ongoing nightmares.

As he paused, John spoke quietly into the space. “Why are you getting so upset about this?” he asked, watching Sherlock closely. Sherlock glanced at John, and the energy seemed to go out of him and he deflated like a balloon, leaning against the desk and facing John. He looked defeated, John thought, like he has finally acknowledged some great truth within himself.

“You are my friend, John,” Sherlock said quietly, and the words made John feel sad and comforted at the same time. “I can’t figure out how to help you, and I don’t know why this is happening.” John knew the puzzle was important to Sherlock, but there was more there too, more emotion than he was used to seeing.

John walked over to Sherlock and looked at him for a long moment. “I am your friend,” he affirmed. “I’ve been your friend for exactly four years and eight days.”

Sherlock frowned, then asked, “The anniversary of when we met has caused your nightmares?”

John smiled wryly. “You’re an idiot.” He said fondly, with no malice.

“The anniversary of when you almost died. And I almost watched you do the stupidest thing and take that damned pill, and if I hadn’t made that shot…” he trailed off, the pain in his face evident even to Sherlock.

Sherlock watched John’s face change as the emotions moved across. “But I didn’t die.” Sherlock ventured. “You saved me.”

John shot a withering look at him. “But if I hadn’t,” John explained patiently, “That’s what’s keeping me...well, both of us…up at night right now.” He looked Sherlock in the eye, seeing the realization dawn on him. He saw the intellect working out the facts, then the pale eyes meet his for a second as he clearly tried to determine the course of action.

“If I was there,” Sherlock asked, and John’s heartrate upped again as he heard the words, “would it make a difference?” Without breaking eye contact, John nodded slowly. Sherlock nodded too, and John knew that the next move would be crucial. They both understood what had been offered and accepted, but it was up to John to guide Sherlock in this new paradigm. John moved slowly in, Sherlock’s feet parting to allow him to step close to Sherlock’s body. Tentatively, Sherlock’s arms moved around John’s shoulders, as John slid his own arms under Sherlock’s and around his back. John buried his face in Sherlock’s chest and inhaled deeply. They stood like that for several moments, each adjusting to this new proximity. John could feel Sherlock relaxing, his tense muscles losing their rigidity as their body warmth mingled in the cool pre-dawn air.

As John began to relax, to feel safe and comforted, tears sprang to his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself that this was what he had been craving, yet here it was, changing his life.

Feeling the wetness through his t shirt, Sherlock pulled away, searching John’s face. His look was questioning, somewhat anxious, and John realized that he would be offering as much as he would be receiving in this new arrangement. He smiled at Sherlock, but did not speak. With his thumb, Sherlock brushed the tears from John’s eyes. Their arms slid free, fingers of one hand entwining and in unison they moved towards Sherlock’s bedroom. It was with tenderness and some evident nerves that Sherlock pulled the covers straight and helped John into the cool sheets, before switching out the light and pausing, hesitating. John waited in the almost-darkness, holding his breath, hoping that Sherlock would not give in to his fears. He exhaled in a rush when he felt the bed shift under Sherlock’s weight.

“Probably best if you breathe, you know.” Sherlock whispered, and John grinned. The awkwardness washed away by this moment of gentle levity, and they moved towards the centre of the bed, arms and legs tangling together as John turned in towards Sherlock, wanting to feel his heartbeat as he had when they stood together in the living room. Sherlock’s arms wound around John, and John’s breathing became slow and even as he at last found his safe place.

+++

John woke first, feeling better than he had in days. As he shifted his weight and felt the mass of someone next to him, the previous night came flooding back, and he turned his head sharply to see Sherlock in profile, still sleeping. John carefully pulled himself into a half sitting position, allowing Sherlock’s arm to drape across his stomach, their legs still entangled. Judging by the angle of the sun, it was close to midday. He had slept through, a deep, healing sleep that he had not felt in a long time. He thought about how much had changed in the last few hours and shook his head, a small smile making its way across his lips.

To his right, Sherlock stirred, arms and legs tightening briefly as he surfaced from sleep. John looked down as the startling blue eyes opened then rose to meet his own. Sherlock looked at John for a moment, then asked, “Why are you smiling?” John returned his gaze then shook his head, declining to answer. He daren’t move, unsure how Sherlock would feel about this new arrangement.

John watched as Sherlock stretched his tall frame out, then rolled to lean on one bent elbow, bringing his head level with John’s. Sherlock didn’t speak, and John could see him trying to read John, to see how he was doing emotionally.

“I slept.” John answered belatedly. “Thank you.” A blush rose in his cheeks as he acknowledged the role Sherlock had played in this event, and he looked down at his clenched fists. He wasn’t aware that he had done that. Some of the tension of the previous evening returned as he wondered what would happen tonight. Would Sherlock expect him to move back to his own bed? He wasn’t sure he would be okay with that.

“So, do you sleep here now?” Sherlock asked, and John snapped out of his reverie at the quiet sound of his voice.

“Pardon?” John asked. He was looking at Sherlock again now, and he could see the small, knowing smile playing across Sherlock’s mouth. It was the same look he had when he had solved a problem and was waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

“You might as well move your things down here, no point going up and down the stairs all the time,” Sherlock continued as though he knew that John had heard him.

“So, you’re okay with this?” John asked, indicating the two of them, and their surroundings. To John’s surprise, Sherlock sat upright, crossed his legs and leaned forward in earnest. For a moment John thought Sherlock was going to kiss him, and he instinctively looked at Sherlock’s mouth. When Sherlock started speaking, he realized his mistake, hoping that Sherlock hadn’t noticed.

“I didn’t get to finish what I wanted to say last night,” Sherlock was saying, as John tuned back in. “You are my friend, John, in a way that I have not experienced. I would lay down my life for yours, as I know you would yours for me. Last night, if that’s what you need to sleep, then,” he shrugged, “I can do that. For you.” John nodded slowly, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes. He had a feeling that they were not on the same page as to exactly what they were now. As John attempted to frame a reply, Sherlock continued. “It was comforting,” he admitted, “to have you close.” He ducked his head, forcing John to catch his eye. “Despite Mycroft’s belief, I am not a virgin.” Sherlock said without a hint of embarrassment at this disclosure. John’s heart had started beating faster as he wondered where this line of conversation was going.

“I’ve had sex,” Sherlock clarified, once again, “I have experienced sex, but I have never craved intimacy. Never a girlfriend, or a boyfriend. I’m not really sure how it works. I thought that you could teach me.” Amazed, John could only watch the colour rising in Sherlock’s cheeks. He knew this was a reaction to Sherlock asking for help rather than the rest of the short speech he had made.

“Um, yes.” John replied, a little belatedly. He’d been caught out, and found himself dazed by the unanticipated request. He felt his body begin to react as the idea of teaching Sherlock about intimacy settled in his brain.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked, placing one palm on John’s chest. He sat for a moment then answered his own question. “Accelerated heart rate, dilated pupils, shallow breathing…” He listed then trailed off, noticing the smile on John’s face.

“That,” John told him, “is called arousal, as I’m sure you well know.” He sat up now, on his knees, and Sherlock mimicked him, so their knees touched. “Also called happiness, fulfillment of desire, and disbelief, in my case,” he told Sherlock, whose face mirrored his smile, too. “Lesson one, kissing.” John murmured, leaning in to Sherlock, who was already stretching towards John. Their lips met slowly, as they enjoyed the sensation of sensitive skin on sensitive skin. John’s hands rested on Sherlock’s thighs, and the heat through his cotton pajama pants made John want to touch more, experience more. He deepened their kiss, flicking his tongue across Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock responded, his own tongue pushing between John’s lips, searching for its mirror. They both moaned as their tongues met for the first time, a hot flicker of desire coursing through both bodies as they stroked and caressed with their mouths. John rose to his knees, wanting to feel the length of Sherlock against him. Sherlock met him halfway, their simultaneous movement towards each other resulting in a clash of torsos, each pressing into the other, the desire in one fueling the same in the other.

They seemed to stay like that for an age, kissing sometimes fiercely, sometimes so tenderly John felt close to tears. Despite their location, he wasn’t sure how far he wanted to go right now with Sherlock – their relationship, as it was, was the central focus of his life, and he knew they had time. Time to explore each other, to get to know each other in this new way without rushing things. He just hoped that Sherlock understood that he was not rejecting him, simply trying to protect the change to their relationship.

As this ran through John’s head, Sherlock slowed and lightened their kisses until their lips separated for the first time in a long while. They knelt there, foreheads touching, breath mingling, arms still clutching each other. John was confused fuzzy from the hormones racing through is body. He looked at Sherlock, silently asking for an explanation.

“I’m not…sure…” Sherlock panted, and John could see the rest in his eyes.

“Me either,” he replied, and they grinned the same grin. As one, they slid down until they were prone again, this time joined by only the lightest touch at their fingertips. They both stared at the roof as they spoke.

“I could hear you thinking, you know.” Sherlock said.

“No you couldn’t.” John stated calmly. He knew it riled Sherlock when he called bullshit.

“I could feel it, then.” Sherlock retorted, and John laughed.

“I don’t want to rush this.” John admitted. “That’s what I was thinking about.”

Sherlock, who had been tracing aimlessly on John’s hand, entwined their fingers and squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure six years and nine? Nine days could be called rushing things, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock teased.

“Okay, okay, you know what I mean.” John replied.

“Yes, I do.” Sherlock said quietly.

They lay like that for a long time, each thinking their own thoughts about the events of the last twelve hours.

+++

After a long while, they rose and more or less went about their day as usual. Sherlock disappeared for a few hours, as usual, and John updated his blog (though not with details of the night before). Over a dinner of take-out Chinese, they drank a few beers – usual enough for John, but unusual for Sherlock. He rarely imbibed alcohol unless there was a specific reason. John was trying to deduce this reason over dinner, his head cocked to one side as he watched Sherlock drink.

“What?” Sherlock asked abruptly. “You’ve been watching me all night.”

John simply raised his eyebrows, and was rewarded with a slightly awkward squirm from Sherlock, followed by a long drink from his beer bottle. As he continued to avoid John’s gaze, John realized what was going on.

“Ooooh,” he said, nodding his head. “You’re nervous.” He stated the fact rather than offering Sherlock the opportunity to argue with him. He took it anyway.

“No, I’m not.” Sherlock scoffed, but John leaned forward and covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, saying more definitively, “Yes, you are.” He sat back in his chair as Sherlock scowled at him. Sherlock always hated being on the receiving end of a deduction.

“You’re nervous. Nervous about how this,” here John indicated between the two of them, “is going to work, especially…”John trailed off.

“Especially tonight.” Sherlock finished for him. “I’ve been thinking about it all day, actually.” He admitted to John, finally looking him in the eye.

John was surprised. Sherlock rarely let outside things distract him from work. Before he could frame his response, Sherlock cut across, “Oh, I wasn’t working today.”

“What were you doing, then?” John asked, finishing his own beer.

“Just walking.” Sherlock answered. When John looked a little surprised, he snapped back, “Well I didn’t have much choice, I couldn’t concentrate on work today!” John smiled at this. It was good to know that Sherlock was as preoccupied as he himself had been. Truth be told, he’d given up on the blog update, as thoughts of Sherlock inevitably lead towards their most recent activities.

“Good to know.” John replied, the smile remaining on his mouth.

“Really? Why?” Sherlock asked, and John laughed out loud.

“Sentiment is good, Sherlock.” John replied. He shrugged self-consciously. “Nice to know you’re thinking of me, that’s all.” Sherlock looked completely baffled by this. John explained, “It makes me feel good, Sherlock. Obviously my personal wellbeing isn’t rated higher than our national security, but it’s good for me to know you’re thinking about me when I’m not there. I hardly got anything done today, either. Which I blame on you, by the way.”

Sherlock looked surprised at this. “I always think about you when you’re not there, John.” His sincerity was evident, and John realized that in his own way, Sherlock did experience life similarly to other people. He just didn’t express it the same way. John nodded to himself as he accommodated that into his developing picture of their new relationship.

“So, what now?” Sherlock asked, as they took their plates to the kitchen. John, relaxed after the few beers he had downed, shrugged and almost tentatively reached out towards Sherlock. Since he had returned home, they had barely make contact, neither sure how best to express this newly opened connection between them. Losing his nerve, John dropped his hand before Sherlock could turn around and see him.

He shrugged. “I’ll just take the rubbish down, shall I?” Sherlock nodded a slightly confused smile, and watched John as he left.

John returned a few minutes later, washed his hands, then frowned. Where was Sherlock? He wasn’t in their small sitting room, or the bathroom, so John turned towards the only place left on this level – Sherlock’s bedroom. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open to see Sherlock sitting on the end of the bed, head in hands. He stood there a moment, realizing that Sherlock had not heard him enter.

“Everything okay?” John asked hesitantly.

Sherlock didn’t move, his response muffled by his body. “Not sure.” John waited. Sherlock continued, “I don’t know how to do this, John. I want to, I think it’s a logical extension of our friendship,” John refrained from rolling his eyes at this, “and I certainly _want_ to, but I don’t have a clue how to go about it.” John knew that this admission was a big deal for Sherlock. He hated admitting weakness, or inability at almost anything, unless it was something he could sneer at, dismiss.

John sat down on the edge of the bed and removed his shoes. He turned and crawled across the bed until he was sitting behind Sherlock, not touching him. Funnily enough, this display of insecurity strengthened John’s confidence in Sherlock’s commitment to them. If he didn’t value it, he would dismiss it, John knew. A vulnerable Sherlock was a rarity, and John felt touched that Sherlock would allow John to see this side of him.

Gently, John reached out and placed one hand on Sherlocks’ upper back. He had removed his jacket, so only the cotton of his crisp white shirt separated their skin. The heat transfer was immediate, and John could feel Sherlock’s stiff muscles relax under his touch. Emboldened, he slowly ran two fingers down Sherlocks’ spine, and was rewarded with a deep, shuddering breath, evidence of his effect on Sherlock. Turning to face John, Sherlock looked vulnerable in a way John had seen on few occasions during their time together. They looked at each other for a long time, the calm brown eyes and the uncertain blue.

“I don’t really know, either, Sherlock.” John said quietly, “all we can both do is try.” He shrugged, not sure how to explain what he meant. “I don’t want to tell you what to do, there’s no magic formula, it’s different for everyone. But if you try to be honest, and supportive, and gentle, you’ll find your way.” He smiled at Sherlock, a smile of understanding and encouragement. Sherlock smiled back, and John broke the sentimentality but adding, “Not all the time, of course. That would be weird.” As Sherlock laughed at this, John ended with, “But between us, this is what I mean.”

They sat for a few moments then, enjoying the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Sherlock turned and unlaced his shoes, sliding them under the end of the bed.

“Gentle, you say?” He asked with an attempted teasing tone, though John saw the tremor in the hand that reached out, heard the uncertainty in his voice. This overture cost him, John could tell.

“Gentle,” John repeated, and Sherlock unbuttoned John’s top shirt button with one hand. He grazed the small amount of exposed skin with one finger, and John inhaled deeply. He didn’t move as Sherlock repeated the movement down the front of his torso, moving slowly and ever so gently. By the time he had gotten to John’s belt, where his shirt disappeared, they were both breathing heavily. Motioning for John to untuck his shirt, Sherlock continued his task, finally releasing the last button. The last few buttons had been lower than John’s belt buckle, and John was glad Sherlock had not brushed his fingertip over that area, sensitive and straining as it now was.

Carefully, Sherlock eased the fabric over John’s shoulders, revealing the warm skin beneath. He discarded the shirt then used light pressure to lay John down on the cool sheets. To John’s surprise, Sherlock moved one leg over his torso until Sherlock was effectively straddling him, though their bodies barely touched.

“Gentle.” Sherlock murmured, studying John’s face. He was flushed, and his open mouth was like an invitation. Sherlock indulged, allowing their lips to meet with a feather-light touch. John made to deepen the contact, but Sherlock pulled away, reminding John, “Gentle.” John could see Sherlock cataloging his responses to each touch, and each gasp elicited, each squirm and moan, bolstered his confidence. In a back part of his mind, John realized with astonishment that Sherlock didn’t really believe that anyone would be attracted to him. This brief thought was wiped away by Sherlock, as he carefully trailed kisses along John’s jawline. John’s hands were now caressing Sherlock’s back, urging him closer, but Sherlock resisted, maintaining the separation of their bodies. His mouth moved down to John’s collarbone, leaving a wet trail along the skin. John arched his back, and finally Sherlock succumbed and allowed his torso to lower onto John’s. The pressure of his frame was intense, along the length of John’s body, and he knew there was no hiding his arousal from Sherlock now. Abandoning the ‘gentle’ mantra, John tugged at Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock paused to allow it to rake over his head, and John took the opportunity to kiss the exposed neck with an intense hunger. Sherlock lowered himself back down, their exposed chests meeting for the first time. As each moaned the other’s name, their eyes closed in unison, only to open again as a bust of laughter came from each mouth. Their eyes met, and John could see that Sherlock was beginning to understand how deeply he cared for him. With a ragged breath, Sherlock’s eyes filled with sudden tears, and he collapsed next to John, hiding his face but unable to prevent the sobs wracking his body. John rubbed one hand over Sherlock’s back, soothing him until his body stopped shaking. When he finally turned over, a long exhale sounded in the quiet room.

“Wow,” John said, grateful their laughter had broken the atmosphere somewhat before that emotional crescendo. He pulled Sherlock close, tucking his head under the taller man’s chin. Neither spoke, and as John felt his arousal wane, he figured the same was happening to Sherlock. Not that it mattered – there would be plenty of time for that later. Right now they needed comfort. And as Sherlock’s long arms wrapped around him, John knew he’d found his someone. The someone that supported, understood, loved, and surrounded him with acceptance, no matter what. They’d found each other.


End file.
